


time in the light

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, The Hounds of Baskerville Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:59:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One warm palm in the middle of John’s chest and he goes back willingly against Sherlock’s duvet. “We managed just <i>fine</i> last night.”</p><p>“We did,” John grins stupidly. “Didn’t we?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	time in the light

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to April for bidding on me. Her prompt was "John/Sherlock ‘second time’ fic, with a focus on the time between resolved sexual tension, and resolved emotional tension. It’s all about that tension. Smutty and not *too* angsty, and if we could avoid ‘gay panic’ that would be nice."
> 
> Felicia for all of her editing prowess (and for putting up with all of my "AH! This or that! SECOND GUESSING!) and cheerleading.
> 
> Robyn, as always, you're a gem and are continually there to talk me off of the ledge.

In the end, once the dust literally settles, it’s all rather easy.

It takes hours to sort through all four of their stories; John is absolutely certain it would have taken longer if Greg hadn’t handled the local law enforcement and he hadn’t dealt with the military inquiries personally. It’s remarkable, that the four of them are able to retreat from the scene physically unscathed.

Bloody lucky, too.

Billy - still embarrassed about their bit with the Hound - more than obliges in giving Henry a lift back to his house. Henry takes care to assure John he will take a sleeping pill and make every attempt to forget about some of the day; John makes a promise to check on him before they head back to London in the morning. It’s not a moment before Greg, Sherlock and himself settle heavily in the modest dining area of the pub, three of only five patrons, bones feelings too heavy to support their skin.

The local crowd have all returned home as the hour is close to that of witching and the large room feels almost spooky in its emptiness. Gary sets them up with a bottle of whiskey “on the house,” and has the decency to look ashamed for his own participation in the earlier ruse. Greg metes them out each a finger and it’s only a few minutes before he’s refilling the glasses, even Sherlock’s, who tosses his back with a sort of abandon.

John’s seen him drink but never drink like _this_ , with a touch of recklessness, can’t image that he’s well practiced at it but is too knackered to allow the shock to crease his brow.

“Another,” Sherlock grates, the whiskey tinging his tone to something darker, richer. Greg pours and they all sit around the small table in complete silence, eyes on the grain of the wood, the fire, anywhere but on each other. This is how they cope. This is how they’ve all _chosen_ to cope for the time being.

Greg tries for humor but it falls flat, “I should get out of the city more if this is what the idyllic countryside has in store for me.” John spares him with a false smile, Sherlock sighs, rolls his eyes and then closes them and they all return to their private thoughts, sharing nothing but the shifting silence.

They’ve just seen a man blown to bits and this is how they cope.

Greg finishes off his glass, rolling the whiskey up over his top teeth before swallowing. “I’m for bed,” he sighs and claps John on the shoulder once, not bothering to repeat the gesture with Sherlock; it wouldn’t do any good. John’s gaze follows Greg until he leaves the room and then he stands, stretches, moves to one of the high-back chairs by the fire.

Sherlock watches as he goes and after a moment, wraps his fingers around the bottle and follows, placing it on the floor next to his chair. John crosses his legs at the ankles, tilts his head back against the comfortably worn leather and closes his eyes. Sherlock watches carefully as John sucks in a deep breath, only to blow it out harshly, his chest rising and falling dramatically with the effort.

Sherlock imagines what is playing behind John’s eyelids. Is he reliving the past few hours, the explosion, being double crossed by a man so banal that he’d been incredibly easy to trust? The side of John’s face twitches and he grits his teeth at it, Sherlock watching all the while, paying careful attention to the way John’s fingers curl around the back of his neck when he reaches his hand up.

They may have been sitting here for hours, the way the minutes drag and cloy and still; even as John attempts to settles himself, uncoil, destress, everything is calm. Everything seems relaxed and soothed by the light of the hearth, Sherlock knows this and he looks beyond.

At the lines rimming his eyes, the creases against his brow; it’s as though he’s in very deliberate pain just _sitting_ there. Sherlock can’t understand it, tilts his head to get another vantage and reduces his eyes to slits. The pull he takes on his tumbler is long and lingering and the swallow audible.

John’s eyes pop open, almost in shock, remembering that Sherlock is near.

Sherlock doesn’t consider anything before speaking. “The explosion. You’ve seen explosions before though haven’t been present for one since your deployment, will this trigger-”

“No,” John cuts him off, swallowing the mouthful of whiskey he’d been pushing through his teeth. “No, it won’t.”

Sherlock’s gaze is focused on his own drink and he sips from it slowly, holding it to the light after he’s drained it halfway. They’re both raw and open, exhausted, dirty; they’re both shaken to the marrow though neither one makes any vocal mention of it. It’s enough that they can marinate in the aftermath together; there’s no need for actual words.

John speaks just as the fire gives way and logs topple around in the grate, embers bursting across the hearth to flicker at their feet. “I will have nightmares tonight, I... they’ll be rather loud. I’ll...” The breath he huffs is laden with resignation.

Sherlock watches him, notes the detritus in his hair, the small tear in the arm of his jacket. Sherlock _watches_ him. “Ah, yes, that makes absolute sense given the surprisingly enormous extent of the explosion. I would imagine that IEDs employed by the Army today are-”

“Not because of Dr. Frankland, Sherlock. Not because of the fucking mine.” John’s voice is very, very quiet, and he speaks his words to the fire. Flat.

In the other chair, Sherlock shuffles forward, blinks, rests his elbows on his knees and waits. It takes an enormous amount of patience on his part to remain still and quiet while John takes his time in organizing his thoughts. “They’ll be of you, rushing right into that field, not stopping for a moment before... I’ll dream of you blown to smithereens because you’re not... not content to just take a breath and _wait_. Because you’re fucking throwing caution to the wind. All the time.”

There’s a retort ready on the tip of his tongue. It’s acidic and sharp and Sherlock knows just how it will land, slicing right through John’s shaky emotional veneer. John will retreat to their room, seething, and it will be a week, two, before they’re back to normal again. Six months ago, Sherlock wouldn’t have bothered to pause and consider the words about to spill from his mouth.

But now, he doesn’t want to hurt John. He never wants John to hurt, and to hurt _because_ of him is doubly worse. Earlier when he’d managed to call their friendship into question it had taken some time - an hour, two - to feel John’s absence like that of missing limb. But no, this is something more visceral, like someone in his guts knocking about and plucking at his intestines, yanking them up into his throat.

Sherlock understands. Elbows dig into his knees unpleasantly and Sherlock _waits_. The fire hisses and pops and the beams above their head creak with the movements of people going above their evening routine.

“Don’t ever fucking do that again. Never, Sherlock.” John finally looks up and the set of his face causes all of the breath to leave Sherlock’s body. His jaw is set in a hard line, eyes somehow both lit by anger and pleading; he looks aged and weathered, as though it’s been fifteen years since Sherlock’s laid eyes on him.

John finishes off his whiskey and sets the glass down with more force than necessary. His hands ball into fists at his side as he stares into the dying flames. When he rounds on Sherlock it’s with a sudden determination that speaks to overcoming nerves. “I’ll be as plain as I can: I couldn’t bear it, Sherlock. I couldn’t. I know it’s... that I shouldn’t... but there you have it. I couldn’t _bear_ it.”

He nods after a moment, saying all that he’s meant to and turns on his heel. “I’m... good night.”

Sherlock watches him go, fists clenched at his sides as he rounds the doorway and disappears up the stairs to their room. He blinks twice and drops his hand, fingers skimming the cap of the whiskey bottle. It dawns on him suddenly, just like that.

 _Just like that_.

Before the light of the fire and in John’s absence, he understands.

Sherlock blinks again, finally able to categorize the leaden feeling in his stomach, the way his fingers have itched to touch. It’s so _simple_ ; he fears he’s understood it all along but hasn’t believed the emotion to apply to himself. Upper teeth sink into his bottom lip as he considers.

This could be detrimental to the work. It would be absolutely detrimental to _John_. He’s always been under the assumption that sentiment sullies the work but has he ever truly put that to the test? No, he supposes not. He also supposes this is brilliant and new and so, so terrifying. His thoughts run together; he shakes his head briskly in an attempt to sort them out.

But then when has Sherlock Holmes even considered what could _terrify_ him and walked away? Sherlock stands and primly tugs at the bottom of his jacket, bending to retrieve the bottle and their two glasses. He deposits them on the bar and rounds the door to the stairs, mounting each one with care.

When he reaches their room he pulls out the battered key but tests the handle first; John has left it unlocked for him. Something unfurls in Sherlock’s chest and he heaves a sigh, closes his eyes, opens the door.

The two beds are flush against the wall, right beneath the window. Sherlock’s is done up in neat precision but John’s is filled with Sherlock, his body a lump beneath the hideous quilt.

“John,” he says, closing the door quietly behind him.

He turns over in bed, arms down at his side as though standing to attention whilst horizontal. “Don’t, Sherlock... You,” his voice breaks a little as he screws up his face in pain again, flicking a hand up to drag over his face; it’s all so very plain. Oh, it hurts so _brilliantly_. “I didn’t think I could and... here I am and I can’t go back, not after this.”

“I understand, John,” Sherlock says and makes his way over to the bed.

John opens his eyes, stares up at the ceiling in frustration, anger, abject terror. “Do you?”

Sherlock considers this, glances down at the floor before making up his mind. With care he climbs onto John’s twin bed, straddles his hips, gives himself enough distance between their bodies that if John decides that he doesn’t need this after all, he can move away.

John frowns at himself even as his hands come to rest tentatively at Sherlock’s hips. The fingers shake, but they hold.

“I understand,” Sherlock says, dips his head once in a nod and settles down against John’s thighs. “Yes.”

\---

John is happy, relaxed in the morning, he’s quick to smile and then shy away from Sherlock’s gaze. The flush on John’s cheek, his inability to meet his gaze sends a warm thrill running down Sherlock’s spine and the sensation makes up his mind for him. He crowds John back against the door to the loo and snogs him, languidly, senselessly.

Sherlock goes for a shower and lingers, testing the slight twinges in his muscles, having moved in ways he hasn’t in years. It feels... wonderful. John heads down to the front office alone and it’s thirty minutes later that Sherlock shows up at his picnic table with a cup of coffee.

Everything is rather normal, in fact. Sherlock releases a breath at noting that thus far, nothing has been irrevocably altered. He is sore, however, and so he stands beside John as he takes to his breakfast with ardor. He likes watching John eat, anyway.

It’s only a matter of time, really. Sherlock hadn’t even thought he’d make it this long before being questioned. The case is brought up and Sherlock prepares for the inevitability of John asking about being dosed.

It’s obvious that the previous evening’s events have apparently taken a toll on John as well; his face is a shade of softness that Sherlock has never witnessed before and a dull little thudding begins in the center of his chest at the notion that he put that look upon the John’s face.

“Sentiment?” Sherlock asks as though it’s a sweet inside joke between the two of them and nearly rebukes himself for being so childish until John responds in kind, almost immediately.

Sherlock takes in John’s soft aubergine shirt, the slight smile just curling the corners of his mouth and sits next to him on the bench. The crest of Sherlock’s teeth impressions are visible near John’s shoulder if he cranes his neck _just so_.

They’d not needed any words last night but this morning there are details to suss out. Obviously John is wanting to know how he came to be drugged in the lab as he supposes any normal person would. Sherlock knows that he can’t talk his way out of this, can’t _lie_. He even takes care to soften the blow of John’s questioning; normally he wouldn’t be bothered if John was quite aware that he was being experimented on but now, well. Sherlock bites his tongue and searches through the little sauce bin, wondering just how this is going to be received.

If perhaps the endorphins will soften the blow of finding out that Sherlock was indeed the one who locked him in the lab and dosed him, he delays as long as he’s able.”Ketchup was it, or brown?” Locking an Army veteran in a room and subjecting him to psychological stimuli, perhaps not Sherlock’s best idea. He vows silently to make it up to him, somehow.

When John responds with ire - thought not much, not as much as might have been warranted - the curl of regret unfurls in Sherlock, a novel sensation. He can’t undo what’s already been done, but he certainly can be sorry for it. The soft look he gives John is startling in its sincerity. He even nearly concedes to John that he was wrong about something and if that isn’t proof positive that Sherlock is indeed rather sorry then nothing is.

And when he asks about the long term effects of the drug Sherlock assures him that everything is fine. “You’ll be fine once you’ve excreted it, we all will.”

“I think I may have taken care of that already,” and it’s just the slightest shade of cheeky. That shocks a laugh out of him as he attempts to halt the flush he’s feeling from rising to his cheeks. Excreted _indeed_ ; the memory comes to play full force in the cinema of his mind. Unexpected, brilliant, _John_.

And as he walks away, John’s eyes linger for just a beat more than usual.

Yes, things are fine. They’re quite good.

Never, ever better.

\---

The Land Rover is returned to the small rental lot near the station and they make the short walk to the platform in companionable silence, Sherlock taking John’s bag without question while he pays for tickets.

When they stand side-by-side on the platform, they both pretend not to catch the other glancing at him from his periphery. It’s all quite high school, really and it kicks up a flutter of nervous butterflies in John’s stomach. Nervous and... utterly pleasant, like he’s floating on a cloud or in a bubble, completely untouched by anything remotely _not good_.

“Oh stop,” Sherlock finally whispers but John can hear the smile at the admonition.

Feigning innocence, John checks the time, “Stop what?”

“You’re never _this_ elated after...” Sherlock says, checking his phone for the time.

“After what, being shagged?” If John was hoping to get a rise out of him, he’ll be disappointed.

Sherlock is prim and proper, the only outward show of him being riled is his fingers pulling at the cuffs of his shirt from beneath his coat. “I would have hoped for a descriptor noting how well you were shagged, but yes.”

“Well,” John says, curling his lips into only the hint of a smile. “This wasn’t _just a shag_ , was it?”

Sherlock blinks, blinks again. The train rounds the bend and signals it’s approach by hitting it’s horn. “No,” Sherlock whispers, audible only to himself amongst the clamor of the arriving locomotive. “No, I suppose not.”

 

\---

The trip isn’t long though they opt for seats in the first class cabin. John settles in next to the window, his small overnight bag going on the rack above them. When Sherlock slides in beside him, he’s already immersed in his mobile, thumbs flying over the screen as he shoots off texts and emails.

John watches a moment, mind flashing instantly to just what those fingers had been doing mere hours before. He bites his lip, best not to meander down that road at the moment. Sherlock’s gaze flicks towards him briefly, a sharp look out of the corner of his eye and John immediately sucks in a tight breath and flicks his own gaze away.

John’s hand quivers where it rests in his lap; he gazes out the window almost resolutely, as though he doesn’t want to risk looking at Sherlock. He watches on as John’s hand twitches again and before thought can intervene he reaches over and snatches John’s hand up in his, pries the fingers open and lays John’s palm on his own knee.

John doesn’t even turn his head, doesn’t even glance over; he sees John’s grin reflected back at him in the train window.

He didn’t think it would be this confusingly _simple_. He’s not so unaware of the mechanics of emotions that he doesn’t know that this change between them will require work. Real effort. Sherlock knows he’ll have to put _effort_ into this thing they have now. He just barely managed to restrain his scoff.

This thing they are now...

“John,” he mutters, staring straight ahead, down the train car at nothing.

“Mmmm?”

“We’ve irrevocably altered our relationship.” His voice is even, clinical. “We remain friends, of course, partners in the sense that you are my blogger and my... companion. But-” Sherlock sinks his top teeth into his bottom lip and sucks for a moment. “I’m not entirely certain what we are, presently.”

It’s slow in coming, but his head turns and his gaze bores into Sherlock’s face, waiting. “I...”

Sherlock heaves a breath into his chest and holds it, waiting for John’s response. John will know; John is good about these things. “We’re...” he begins, licks his lips and steals a quick glance out the window again. “We’re great, we’re...” The breath John blows out is shaky, labored. “Together, yeah? I assume we’re-”

“Yes. Together,” Sherlock affirms, inclining his head once in a sharp nod. “Yet-”

“Listen, Love, I-” John begins but Sherlock cuts him off abruptly.

“Love?” He asks quickly, eyes reduced to thoughtful slits. “I-”

Sherlock obviously seizes the word, taking it out of the context John had meant it in. Still, as John’s heart hammers in his chest, he realizes that Sherlock taking it out of context is perhaps for the best. Love is the truth of it, the truth of it all; John supposes it’s not too much, allowing Sherlock to misinterpret him because he so desperately wants to say it aloud, can’t yet. Saying now, after one night, would seem trite, even if it’s appropriate. “What?”

They’re playing awkward, verbal ping-pong and John is certain that he’s going to sweat through his jumper until Sherlock turns to face him, a slow smile just touching his lips. Sherlock can say it, however. Sherlock who is awful when it comes to sentiment, doesn’t understand emotion. If Sherlock wants to claim it, to air it, to cement it, John isn’t going to stop him. “Love, I suppose... yes.”

“Oh, right - ah, alright,” John smiles back, takes his hand back to wipe the sweat onto his own trouser leg and settles it back on Sherlock’s.

Right then. Right.

...right.

\---

John heaves his bag onto the sofa and stands before it a moment, staring down at it as Sherlock bounds in behind him. He paces to the hearth and back to the door, restless. When he tugs his coat off and drops it on the hook, he rounds on John, hands at his sides, digging into his hips. “What?”

“ _What_ , what?” John asks, lopsided grin making Sherlock’s stomach do somersaults.

“You’re...” he flaps his right hand in John’s general direction. He should have known that the awkward, patient Sherlock wouldn’t be around for long.

John dips his head, grins at himself. “No, I just, we took a bit of a leap there didn’t we with the-”

“Love,” Sherlock says plainly, making the word seem so blasé that it nearly causes John to gape.

“Yes.” John says. “That.”

“Well,” Sherlock takes a step towards him, his fingers uncurling from his hips. “Call it what it is, yes?”

John gulps. “Yes.”

“Good,” Sherlock smiles, a tiny, naughty thing and then grips John’s wrist. “I’d like to show you my bedroom.”

“I’ve seen your bedroom,” John smiles, his cheeks pinkening.

But Sherlock is already off, tugging him helplessly along. Sherlock is a _whirlwind_.“Well of course you have, but not from _this_ angle.”

Sherlock drags him around and gives him a solid shove so he falls back against the bed in a fit of laughter. “I didn’t expect you to be...” John struggles to sit up, grips his knees. “So enthusiastic.”

Sherlock frowns, hands back on his hips. “What? Why?”

“Oh just,” John laughs again, shaking his head all the while and stands, moves to Sherlock and brings his hands gently to the top button of his shirt. “...nevermind.” Sherlock stands before him, still save for the fingers that slide through John’s belt loops, back and forth. He’s restrained energy and John appreciates the gesture; he’s still exploring new territory here. He’d like to take it a bit slow.

“Take two,” John whispers when he finishes, leaning in to nose at Sherlock’s neck, trembling.

“Was there a problem with take one?” It’s not a purr but it’s so close that John has to close his eyes, lean his forehead to Sherlock’s collarbone to center himself. Like vibrations through glass he feels it all around, singing through his bones so thoroughly he feels he might shatter.

He breathes through his nose: deep, slow, and presses a long, gentle kiss to Sherlock’s pectoral. “Absolutely not a one.”

“Grand,” Sherlock drawls in that manner he does when he thinks something is brilliant and is spurred to action, tugging at John’s trousers, unfastening the button and zip. “This is the least hideous of your jumpers but off, please,” he plucks at the hem until John obliges, stripping the sweater and the vest beneath in one swoop.

Tongue between his lips, John attempts quick work of Sherlock’s trousers before the sudden calm in the room startles his hands away. John makes it as far as shoving a side of his boxers over one hipbone before his hands pause and hold against the newly-bare skin there.

Sherlock is all reckless abandon for moments until he stops, shudders and shivers with the effort of holding still. He blinks and steps back, “It looks different, ehm, _you_ look different.” Sherlock says, voice breaking just barely, just so. “In the light, you look...”

“It is nice, to be able to,” John sluggishly pushes Sherlock’s shorts all the way off and stumbles as his own trousers ball and bunch at his knees; it causes a wave of laughter to bubble out of him. “To be able to see you,” he says through the warm, pleased chuckles, shucking the slacks and his socks, wrapping them into a bundle and whipping them towards Sherlock’s wardrobe.

Sherlock chuckles too and leans in, slinging an arm around his waist to bring him in for a gloriously sloppy kiss. John smiles into it even as Sherlock grins and they’re laughing against one another’s mouths like fools. “This is bonkers,” John manages when Sherlock diverts to test the area just below his ear.

John’s fingers stutter and skip, trip against the head of Sherlock’s cock just so; he can’t seem to control his motor functions; it feels distinctly as though his mind is going offline in the most _pleasant_ way. John twists his wrist again, manages to drag the pad of his thumb along the underside of it, deliberately slow.

“Yes,” is the answering rumble into his skin.

John shoves out a gasp of a smile through his nose, tilts his head back and gives Sherlock access to more skin. His head feels as though it’s spinning on his shoulders, rotating on its axis, out of control. “Like riding a bike, yes? Well, I’ve not even had a chance of training wheels with this, so-”

Sherlock sucks at the hollow of John’s throat and gives a little tug against his lower back, dipping him until he sits on the bed, leaning far enough back that Sherlock drapes himself over John’s smaller body. Panting against his lips, Sherlock peeks out from under long lashes and _sees_ him, so close, lids hooded but eyes glittering with nerves and mischief. “That’s a _terrible_ metaphor, John.”

One warm palm in the middle of John’s chest and he goes back willingly against Sherlock’s duvet. “We managed just _fine_ last night.”

“We did,” John grins stupidly. “Didn’t we?”

Sherlock pauses in slithering down John’s body, chin in line with his belly button and gives him a long look, eyes just visible beneath a cascade of fringe. “You know we did.” Twin thumbs hook into the elastic waistband of John’s pants and tug, John lifting his hips as Sherlock peels the fabric from him.

The sunlight continues to stream in through the crack in the curtains, pale shaft of light illuminating the dust in the air, the fine golden hair on John’s lower stomach. Sherlock presses his nose there, inhales and John’s eyes slide closed. “Yes,” Sherlock whispers to himself, to John, to _no one_ and presses a soft kiss to the head of his cock.

“Jesus,” John gasps and forces himself up onto his elbows, glances down as Sherlock smiles against him, chuckles and then slides his mouth down. John’s arms give and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, evidenced by the way they shake and tear at the bed, thread themselves through Sherlock’s hair only to fly away.

Sherlock chuckles again, right around his cock and John slams his head back into the mattress several times as the hand that isn’t working the base of his cock comes up to direct John’s hands into his hair. “I want you there,” he says, slurping off to meander lower, lick at the delicate crease of John’s balls.

It’s a vicious heat that skates up his spine, razor sharp and pooling at the bottom of his skull. “Sherlock?” he gasps and does his absolute best to keep his hips still.

“Hmmm?” Lips against the inside of John’s thigh, he takes the chance to drag his teeth down the skin there, gently.

“Can we... can you... oh, keep doing that, just-” And with that he swallows him down again, head bumping against his throat and when Sherlock sucks in a breath he manages to take John a bit further. The sensation is nearly too much and John shouts, sloppy, undignified bursts of noise skipping out of his mouth. “No, no, don’t want to-”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, pulling off with another loud, lewd slurp, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth, dragging. “Wouldn’t want to wrap this up too quickly.”

Eyes closed, John agrees, shaking his head, flinches when Sherlock crawls back up his body, sliding the flat of his palm slowly up the underside of his prick, settling over him. Leaning on his elbows, Sherlock stares down at him, waits for John’s eyes to flutter open and leans to drag his nose against John’s.

A deep breath in and then out and John focuses on the face above him, smiles in a nervous, lazy way and presses their mouths together, open and slow. It’s Sherlock’s sigh, stuttered and long, long, long that undoes John, has him curling a leg around Sherlock and pressing a hand into his hair and holding him there.

John’s heart _breaks_.

“I-” Sherlock begins against his mouth and then thinks better of it, opens for a kiss again. Sherlock dips into John languidly, like he’s in no rush and John responds in kind, suckling at his lips in turn. Breathing against each others’ mouths, they smear sloppy kisses against chins and cheeks, the tips of noses.

“I...” he tries again and settles his mouth against John’s collarbone.

“What?” John asks quietly, dragging his fingernails against scalp.

“Be inside of me,” he asks more than says, tips of fingers curling into John’s side and holding, skin shivering. There are nerves jangling through his bones, John can feel it and so he holds him, presses his chin into Sherlock’s hairline and breathes.

Eyes slipping closed, John wills his heart to slow, wills saliva into his mouth, wills his head to stop spinning. He hadn’t realized that he’d needed to hear those words until Sherlock had said them. Sherlock continues, running away from himself, thinking he needs to convince. “I’ll... It’s quite easy really. I’ll show you how to prepare me properly as not to hurt me but no worries, you won’t hurt me John, I promise you that-”

“Sherlock,” he tuts in return. “Hush.”

Sherlock peeks up at him from under a tumble of hair.

“Yes, of course, I- there’s nothing else I’d rather, alright?” Tenderly, John presses the hair away from his face and cups a cheek in a palm, dragging his mouth back up for a lazy kiss. After a moment, Sherlock tears away, giddy, leaving John boneless against the bed to laugh in resignation as Sherlock searches through his bedside table for what they’ll need.

John watches as Sherlock lays out a small bottle of lube, a row of condoms and then bounces back on the bed. He situates himself against the pillows as Sherlock turns down his side of the bed, mentioning, “It’s hell to get stains out of the duvet.”

It seems like such an entirely ridiculous thing to say and it sends John into another fit of giggles. “Oh yes, yes, of course.”

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock says as he lays himself down, settles against the pillow and dramatically spread his legs. Two of Sherlock’s fingers drag down his stomach, linger at his cock to tease and then slip around. He tilts a leg, crooks his right knee and presses against his hole. “Use the lubricant,” Sherlock says and it sounds too clinical, too cold and again, again John is laughing. Sherlock rolls his eyes, with his free hand tosses across the bottle. “I’ll know when, but it will take a moment for me to relax.”

“Do leave something to the imagination,” John admonishes, tilts himself up onto his knees and bends over Sherlock for a quick, deep kiss. “On your front,” he says, gives a little slap to Sherlocks thigh. Complying immediately, Sherlock springs to his front, spreading his legs once more.

John swallows, mouth going dry. It’s quite unnerving really, that he _wants_ this much, that he wants this _man_ this much. He palms the back of Sherlock’s thighs, lingers against the sparse hair there, tickling against his behind. Thumbs press into his lower back and Sherlock lets loose a moan so desperately wanton that it almost sounds put on.

“Christ,” John mutters, dragging his palms back over Sherlock arse, slapping gently.

Sherlock pokes his head up, looking at him over his shoulder. “What?”

“Nothing, just... look at you,” his voice is a rush of amazement and it’s with Sherlock looking that John slides his thumb over his hole and presses gently.

“Yes,” his face falls back into the pillow. “Like that.”

Taking a calming breath, John licks his lips and takes up the lube, flicking the cap open. It takes him a moment, left hand still stroking Sherlock’s thigh before he flicks the cap back closed and sets it down on the bed. “Just... tell me if...”

“Get on with-”

But the words halt, they slam to a stop in Sherlock’s throat when John leans down and flicks against the rim of muscle with his tongue. It’s tentative at first, just a little wet heat. John’s breath skitters and skates over the quivering skin for a few brief seconds before he drags the flat of his tongue up, very, very slowly. “Is this-” he asks quickly against Sherlock’s skin.

“Shut up, keep - keep doing _that_ ,” Sherlock orders, presses his hips back. John smiles against his skin, licking into Sherlock carefully, experimentally. He flicks against the tight ring of muscle delicately before pressing his lips down and kissing him properly, working him open. Sherlock squirms, the noises coming from his throat more mewls than moans; the sounds go a long way to calming John’s nerves and he smiles as he presses the tip of his tongue in.

John settles in between his legs, slides out against the mattress, kicks the duvet off the end of the bed. Pulling back, he presses the tip of his thumb against Sherlock and after a moment works up the courage to press inside. It’s only a bit, just a few centimeters, but the way Sherlock groans it sounds as though he’s been cleaved in two.

John pants, “Okay?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer but presses back even further, goes up onto his knees and bares himself.

It takes a moment for John to sit back - knees and lower back creaking - and locate the lube, another for him to slick his fingers properly. Sherlock grunts impatiently with his face in the pillow until John presses an index finger to his opening and gives a bit of pressure. “Tell me...” John reminds him and slides in to the first knuckle, curling his finger experimentally.

Sherlock goes very, very still and John realizes just how bright it is in the room, and it seems absurd in that moment to think about having sex in the afternoon. It’s one of those strange thoughts that springs forth unbidden and is of absolutely no consequence but in that moment he realizes that he’s very glad that he can actually _see_ Sherlock. See how his hair curls a bit more with the humidity from his sweat, how his back glistens just so from the exertion of receiving pleasure, how the color of his lips deepen so nicely when he’s debauched.

Once John’s first finger is seated, he strokes in, up, experimentally. He’s rewarded with a keening cry, Sherlock driving back. He doesn’t brush it on the first go, but when he works in a second finger - dropping open-mouthed kisses over Sherlock’s back as goes - he crooks his hand up and swipes across the bundle of nerves.

Sherlock is a shivering mess on the bed, cock trapped between his body and the sheets; John is sure it’s uncomfortable but still, he takes his time, works Sherlock open with a third finger, mitigates the hissing as he stretches him by lapping around his fingers, settling him down.

John doesn’t ask if he’s ready and Sherlock says nothing, but when John settles back on his knees, Sherlock turns over. His cock is a brilliant shade of mottled purple against his belly; John can’t help it, he leans in and kisses, once against the tip, once against the base.

As he rolls a condom on, Sherlock settles his hand against John’s, working with him.

“Right,” his eyes drop closed and he takes a low, deep breath, opening his eyes once more. The head of his cock presses against Sherlock and he wonders suddenly if he’ll be any good at this at all. He swallows the panic, meets Sherlock’s gaze and presses forth.

…nothing happens. “Do you... Sherlock, relax,” John stutters out and Sherlock shakes his head. His head tosses on the pillow, disbelieving.

“I, John, you need to give a bit of effort.”

“I _am_ giving effort, I don’t want to hurt you!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and shimmies his hips a bit further into John’s lap. “You _won’t_. Now, put your cock in me.”

John can’t help but bark a laugh, “Right, I’ll just magically make it happen-”

“Is this a mental block because you’re about to bugger a man? It’s really just insert tab A into slot B, basic mechanics John-”

“No!” It’s almost a shriek, the way his voice breaks. “No, you’re right,” John twists his mouth into a wry smile. “I completely forgot that you’re a man and I’m about to- no, no it’s not that.”

“Then what-’

“This is important Sherlock!” John exclaims and then clamps his mouth immediately shut, worries that he’s given too much away. “It’s...” but there aren’t words to temper it, only words to cement it further. “God.”

“I know,” Sherlock says abruptly and then bites his bottom lip, corrects himself. “...I know.”

John goes slack, chin falls to his chest. “So let’s... Give me, just... Give me a moment.”

Sherlock nods and pulls his arms away, folds them on his stomach just above his cock and pulls the most angelic face he can manage.

John laughs affectionately at him, “Arse.”

His mouth a perfect ‘o’, John breathes out a long slow breath and brings his hand to his cock. When he presses against Sherlock this time there’s a bit of give; Sherlock twists his hips just a bit and John adds the slightest bit more pressure and John slips inside.

“Jesus,” he gasps, bites his bottom lip, and closes his eyes.

“Shhh,” Sherlock says, stroking John’s hips, “Just like that, just like that.”

John nods and swallows, forces his eyes open to look down at Sherlock’s face. His expression is open and unguarded and the sight clutches at John’s heart; he leans forward a bit more, gripping Sherlock’s hips and moving him forward. “Nearly there,” Sherlock breathes, scratches his nails along the front of John’s thighs.

“Yes,” John croaks, agreeing. “Yes,” he says again, with a startling finality. John slides all the way in and stills. Sherlock is _wrecked_ against the pillows, pupils blown, eyes wild. He pushes himself up, moves his arms and shimmies himself into John’s lap, forcing him deeper. He’s so damned _eager_.

They groan, together.

Even now, Sherlock towers over him, tucks John’s head beneath his chin and they stop, still, inhale together. Exhale together. “Alright?”

“Should be asking you that,” John says with what little effort he has left, presses a kiss to the side of Sherlock’s neck.

“I am...” he tilts his hips back, “brilliant.”

They remain there for a moment, sharing a few misplaced kisses. Lips just meet the corners of mouths and the juts of chins; there’s too much feeling here now for either of them to land their lips properly. And when Sherlock lifts his hips, presses back down against John, his mouth slackens open in a spectacular groan.

“Oh yes,” Sherlock says directly into the side of John’s head. “I like you like this.”

“Love _you_ like this,” John responds and manages to press his hips up. “C’mere,” Gathering Sherlock to his chest they slide against the sheets until Sherlock is on his back, John secured in the ring of his arms. “Want to _see_ you,” Sherlock says, leaving a little lick at the tip of John’s nose as he begins to move.

“Like this?” John asks as Sherlock’s legs come to wind around his back. He thrusts in slowly, retreats slower. He feels covered in Sherlock, smothered in him; it’s wonderful. John pants into his skin, face tucked into the side of Sherlock’s neck and really, he’s _all around_. It’s not enough for Sherlock, John’s careful movements inside of him and so he tilts his hips just so, throwing off his rhythm. “Sherlock...”

“Just,” he grits, sinking his teeth into John’s shoulder. “Please!”

The smile that John wears is half relief, half affectionate annoyance. He finds purchase against the mattress, rights his knees, cups the side of Sherlock’s neck with a hand and _moves_. He presses deep, hard, until he feels he might fuse with Sherlock and then backs off, sweat dripping against Sherlock’s chest.

And all around them, the scent of the two of them, cloying and heavy, John feels sweetly dizzy with it; he’s high, out of his mind, inside of Sherlock. It’s a chorus of staccato ‘ah, ah, ah’s from Sherlock as John picks up the pace, turns his head to swear into Sherlock’s mouth. “Going to-”

But Sherlock is hissing, “Yes,” and wrapping a hand around his own cock before John can finish the sentence.

“Jesus fuck Sherlock,” John stutters, forces himself back, until their foreheads are just a breath apart. Glancing down, he watches for a moment as Sherlock jerks himself, the head of his cock bumping against John’s stomach every stroke or two. It’s... it’s fucking _beautiful_.

Dragging his gaze back to Sherlock’s eyes, he notes the glint of desperation there. John grins, dips his mouth and kisses Sherlock deeply.

Sherlock’s body arches, strung tight as a bow and John feels the bursts of wetness against his stomach. Sherlock grunts and wraps his arms tight around John’s back, riding out his orgasm, body spasming around the John.

“Sherlock, I-” is all he manages before he’s coming too, pressing his mouth to Sherlock’s as he gathers him as close to him as he can, thrusts with all of the energy he has left. He lingers as long as he can inside, can’t bear to pull away; it’s so unbearably good...

He doesn’t collapse on Sherlock or pull away; as they’re getting their breath back, John leans back on an elbow and with his free hand, pushes Sherlock’s fringe off of his forehead. He smooths down his eyebrows, slides an index finger over his nose. Finally, the hand comes to rest over Sherlock’s sternum, not holding there, just feeling.

Sherlock hums, closes his eyes for a moment, smiles lazily. “I understand,” he says, the words from the night before just a bit lighter, just a _bit_ heavier.

“Oh, I know you do,” John says softly, sighs and rolls off of him, goes about the awkward business of disposing the condom and locating a flannel. When he returns, he hesitates for a only a moment before tossing Sherlock the damp towel and sliding back onto his bed. He thinks better of it after a moment and rights the sheets, pulls the duvet back up and on.

“This will be nice,” Sherlock says, turning onto his side, shimmying closer to John. ”Seeing how we fit in an actual bed.”

“Ah, but there was some charm to managing on a twin, wasn’t there?”

Sherlock considers. “Perhaps. Though, I will take this time over the first.”

“Oh?” he tucks his legs up, meets Sherlock in the middle of the bed.

Sherlock blinks, relaxes into the pillows and closes his eyes. “This time, I could actually see you, all of you.”

For the second time, John’s heart breaks. “You’re a right sap, aren’t you?”

Sherlock peeks an eye open.

“No. Shut up. Go to sleep.”

And John revels in the afterglow and in the fact that for once, Sherlock is the one telling _him_ to go to sleep.


End file.
